A Top Secret draft memo from Secretary of State for Screwing the Poor, Ian Duncan Smith, has been slipped anonymously under the door of Newsnet HQ. It seems to have been written as an address to his many fans up and down the country.
Top code-breaker Citizen Cuddis translates from the original gibberish.
Hi folks, Funky Dunky here.
The logic of taking a wrecking ball to the Welfare State is iron clad. The feckless want our money and they don’t deserve it. End of story.
You had to sneak about in the bushes in the old days, hiding in ditches during the day and travelling on the dark of the moon. With a rhododendron bush strapped to your tin hat like the SAS in Borneo. You had to be careful back then.
You daren’t get caught lashing TNT to the foundations of the Welfare State like a saboteur—the electorate wouldn’t have liked it. Now, with the outbreak of WWII (War on Welfare, Round Two) sneaking is a thing of the past. The public still don’t like it, but what can they do about it? As our cousins across the pond from whom we rent our nuclear fireworks say—doodly squash, that’s what.
With Labour’s post election breakdown and our overall majority, I can now swing sledgehammer blows at what’s left of the Welfare State’s supporting posts in broad daylight— and with a fervour my class usually reserve for the Eton Wall Game. Who’s going to stop me?
I don’t claim it’s easy mind. The systematic disenfranchising of the vulnerable takes it out of you. You have to keep coming up with new groups to kick while they’re down. It’s exhausting. Still the destruction of the Welfare State is such a worthy cause that it’s worth the pain of finding new ways to screw the needy (‘Screw The Needy’, now that’s a great soundbite. I’ll write that down and use it later I think.)
My wheeze—‘Get the Fatties!’—is being think-tanked at the moment. Our finest talking heads are trying to work out how we can get away with it. And to those independence crazed lefties in the SNP who point out that I weigh around 200 pounds and that medically, not one of those pounds hangs the right way, I say this: I can afford to eat what I like and the needy can’t. What else is there to say?
The details still need to be worked out but it looks like we’ll haul in all Salad Dodgers drawing benefit and explain why bankrolling the rich to the tune of £300 a day to fuel cocaine and prostitute binges is fine, but having too many white pudding suppers isn’t.
Then we’ll tell them that losing five stone is now a condition of receiving their fortnightly pittance. This rule will be universally applied to cut red tape so that even claimants who were only six stone to start with must comply. Compelling claimants to sign for this amendment to their contract will allow us to clobber them with sanctions the first time they succumb to a deep fried Mars Bar.
Of course this is just the overture before the curtain goes up. Waiting in the wings we have a list of conditions which we will drip feed into the welfare contract of all feckless money grabbers (or FMG’s as the DWP calls them), domestic or foreign. It’s more efficient to refer to them using three letters than waste everybody’s time writing the phrase out in full. Nobody cares about them anyway—even the Labour Party has abandoned them—so why waste time scribbling when we could spend the time targeting, oh I don’t know, the hard of hearing say. By speaking softly at the first interview for example, then blasting them with the welfare blunderbuss. That way they won’t have clearly understood what was said, and are likely make a sanctionable mis-declaration.
It’s all fallen into my voluminous lap really, with the bonus opportunity to create a diversion out of this Calais business (which we are in full control of by the way).
Why do ‘these people’ want to come here? Because our powerhousey economy (there’s a new one opening in the north shortly) is booming and this has turned our glorious country into a land of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk and honey made from free-range bees—for the banking classes at least.
‘These people’ have clocked this. They are all on the hunt for a thick slice of the feather-bedded sub-luxury of welfare handouts which, over the years, have rocketed to an alarming £60 a week. How are we ever going to reduce our debt while throwing handfuls of tenners at foreign desperadoes?
If we fail to prevent what is effectively theft here, five years from now ‘these people’ will be running their overweight offspring to and from private schools in a Range Rover and pony trekking in Andalusia every summer.
So, let’s whip the twelve tog duvet of benefit support clean off the King Size bed of the feckless altogether. Let them shiver. Give them nothing. Then there will be nothing for them to come here for. Sheer genius even if I say so myself. I nearly choked on my £40 breakfast when the idea first came to me.
The cherry on the cake though, is that having precipitated the influx of these better-life seekers by dropping bombs on their loved ones in far flung places 10 years ago we can now hold landlords responsible for harbouring them after they stroll through our government sponsored fences, banging them up if they don’t evict!
You couldn’t make this stuff up (Well I am making it up actually). If you can think of another group of people we should rob blind—Wait up! That’s it, the blind! I’ll get working on it straight away.